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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766225">This Picnic is a Safe Space</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousflavor/pseuds/deliciousflavor'>deliciousflavor</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousflavor/pseuds/NSF'>NSF (deliciousflavor)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Canon? Isn't that a camera or something? [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Psych (TV 2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blink and you'll miss it referral to sexual content, But they are afraid that the other doesn't want it, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, I want to slam their faces after writing this, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Literally all thoughts are about how 'they shouldn't', M/M, Mutual Pining, Oh and the infamous 'You Astound' me scene is of course mentioned, Only Carlton and Shawn are in this, Pining, Romantic Gestures, There's a brief speaking cameo from Juliet, They both want what each other wants, it's complicated - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:14:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousflavor/pseuds/deliciousflavor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousflavor/pseuds/NSF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I guess this would technically be called... a favor. Maybe, I could pay your expenses."<br/>"Done! Fifteen grand a day. When we're finished, we all go for a picnic." </p><p>Time to cash in on the terms and conditions, Lassie.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Canon? Isn't that a camera or something? [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>117</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>This Picnic is a Safe Space</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carlton should have known that the incredulous duo wouldn’t really just let him label the job that they completed for him, a favor. The monkey businessmen of Psych seem to never be satisfied with what they’ve somehow been able to get away with. Spencer and Guster crave more with every new case; Carlton knew Interim Chief Vick had made an enormous mistake letting two, immature civilians in on that first case. Not only were they able to flounder around until they happened across a theory, but they were also paid by Karen to do it. </p><p>And just like stray cats when you feed them, the annoying thorns continue to return (for cash and fame, Carlton observes) and press into their lives and Lassiter’s side. Ever since the first time Spencer and Guster were taken on, they eventually made their way onto almost every case. At this point, Lassiter has all but given up on convincing other people that Spencer isn’t a psychic. He’s a badge, nameplate, and reserved parking spot away from being an actual employee at the Santa Barbara Police Department. Some would argue he, and Guster, are. </p><p>Others, namely Carlton, don’t agree. He worked hard to get where he is. Spencer is the perfect example of how gifts are just yet another cruel joke played by God. Example: Lassiter studied day and night, attended each class, and wrote enough essays and papers to fill a filing cabinet in the records area. Spencer can just look at something for a few seconds, flop around like a seal on a sailboat, and come to the station with nothing more than the required clothing. Not even dress code compliant clothing. </p><p>Lassiter earned his 97.2 score- Shawn was only 15 and already passed with a one and double goose eggs. Gifts were cop-outs for hard work. Spencer didn’t seem to break a sweat, but maybe a handful of times. Carlton hates that. He hates that his reputation is being trampled on by a superhuman; it’s bogus that he had to fight tooth and nail to earn his position as Head Detective while Spencer calls in, almost gets arrested, is released, and then immediately gets hired on the spot for a murder case. </p><p>Worst of all was that Spencer’s gift really has improved things. Carlton may have solved a lot of cases in his day, but it seemed that it was just a day to day occurrence. Murders, robberies, and assaults were all just part of the job description. But for some strange reason, when Spencer is the one working to solve the case, it’s like crime becomes interesting. A spectator’s sport. Worse- a game. </p><p>That’s all this is to Spencer anyway; it’s all some sort of game. Carlton knows that the “psychic” only started the whole shenanigan when he was a hair width away from being charged with obstruction of justice. Before the Head Detective knows it, Spencer is friends with everyone at his station and has every last one of them wrapped around his finger. Lassiter prides himself on not being roped in like that. He knows the truth and one day- </p><p>One day-</p><p>Well, one day in the future, past the first moments the two men met, Lassiter enlisted Spencer and Guster’s help with a case. And one day, this specific case also, for some unholy reason, included his ex-father-in-law. Though, most surprising of all, in pure Shawn Spencer fashion: everything turned out just fine. In fact, things had been better than fine. Spencer had given him a little boost in front of the ex-father-in-law. And… another thing that makes his face turn red when he thinks of it a moment more. </p><p>Speaking of that…</p><p>He would have rather paid twice the amount of Psych’s regular service fee than be driving to the park on his only day off. Before Spencer, Carlton didn’t think much of days off, rather they were a bit of a nuisance. He enjoys his job and without spending time at the station or out and about on a case, Carlton finds himself with a handful of loose time on his hand. This is never a good thing. Detective Lassiter becomes a sloppy drunk or an antsy patrol without his work. Chief Vick still won’t let him live down the Dog Show Debacle of 2005. Lassiter had all but been almost required to turn in his badge and other authorizing material before work holidays. </p><p>The off duty detective pulls into a graveled lot opposite of a playground; his aviator sunglasses reflect the primary-colored scene in front of him. Stepping out of his Crown Vic, Lassiter doesn’t look all that different from his normal appearance. The only difference is that he is sans blazer and his navy blue button-up allows his neck and forearms to breathe. He takes out a small Tupperware from his back seat and starts towards the dull seating area on the other side of the mass of swings, slides, and monkey bars. </p><p>A few especially observant and vigilant mothers watch him cross for a short second before returning to their conversations or magazines. Carlton’s frown deepens for a moment when he realizes that Spencer is already there with an unsliced pineapple, a stack of paper plates, and napkins from the last time the office had Dunkin Donuts delivered. He really was not sure what he was expecting from the man. Boy. Shawn Spencer is not a man; he’s a boy. A child. </p><p>Lassiter’s internal thoughts must be affecting his outward appearance because Spencer’s brow quirks up and his mouth immediately opens to make some smart remark. Carlton clenches his jaw in advance. </p><p>“Lassie, I am also absolutely thrilled to see you as well.” </p><p>Carlton takes a seat on the bench adjacent from Shawn, crossing his arms and leaning back a little. He doesn’t make a move to take off his sunglasses or respond at first. </p><p>The psychic claps his hands together and looks towards the scratched up surface of the picnic table. “Okay. I can already tell this is going to be a very vociferous afternoon for us.” </p><p>The man quirks his own eyebrow at Spencer’s attempt to include an extended vocabulary. He takes the bait without thinking twice about it. “Guster teach you that word?”</p><p>“As a matter of fact, Lass, I taught me that word. We both graduated high school, for your information.” </p><p>Carlton shouldn’t have bit, because now he’s responding right back. “Right. Well, I’m sure ‘high school’ would be very disappointed in you for using incorrect reflexive pronouns.” </p><p>“Your reflexes tell me that you’re being unusually hostile for our PPPP,” Shawn Spencer says pointing towards Lassiter for a moment. He takes a sip of a half-drunk pineapple smoothie. </p><p>Lassiter doesn’t even try to bring attention to Spencer’s incorrect usage of reflexes. He has more pressing questions at this time. </p><p>“PPPP,” the man’s face screws up into a mix of confusion and irritation. He regrets not trying to convince Spencer and Guster on triple the payout. </p><p>“Post Psych Partnership Picnic, Lass, keep up. I put it in the reminder email, the text message this morning, and the paper that I slid under your door this past weekend,” Spencer lectures the detective in front of him. </p><p>Carlton pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger; he really needs an aspirin after all this. Why hadn’t he brought a bottle along in the first place? </p><p>“So where’s Guster?” </p><p>“Oh, Gus couldn’t make it today. He’s at some meeting for a new rash-prevention cream. I’m all yours for the next twenty-seven minutes and fifty seconds, Lassie.” Spencer gives Lassiter a salacious grin. </p><p>Carlton frowns at him. Joy. Although he’s curious why Spencer wouldn’t cancel plans (or drag his best friend there regardless) that he and Guster had set up weeks in advance, he won’t press. The fewer questions he asks, the better. Again, he dissolves into stubborn silence. </p><p>“So what’d you bring? Remember, I’m in charge of desserts; which is what this crowned beauty is here for.” Shawn pats the pineapple on the table. </p><p>Lassiter suddenly remembers the food storage container seated next to him on the bench; he puts it on top of the table and slides it to the middle. Shawn makes a mental note that the move reminds him of the way he slides case files over. He even smirks to himself momentarily, amusingly. </p><p>“Ah, what do we have here…,” Shawn murmurs to himself and pops open the lid, looking inside. </p><p>“Sandwiches. Ham and cheese.” Lassiter informs the man in front of him like he’s debriefing the fake psychic on a new case. </p><p> 	“Pineapple,” Spencer gestures to the fruit. “Plays nice with ham and cheese.” </p><p>Carlton can’t help the grimace on his face. “Are you telling me you don’t trust the flavor profile of my share of the meal, Spencer?”</p><p>“Woah, I would never do that to you, Lassie. Not when we have a relationship completely built upon the unbreakable bonds of trust.” Shawn must’ve been aware of the entire crock of shit that just came out of his mouth. If he doesn’t, Carlton’s unamused gaze has to clue him in on it. </p><p>“Besides, you can never not improve anything with a dash of delicious flavor.” </p><p>Carlton rolls his eyes for a moment before taking one of the three sandwiches in the box. He bites into it before speaking up. He isn’t sure why. He’s currently watching Shawn take apart the already sliced pineapple. He could have sworn that it hadn’t been cut into a moment ago. Maybe the boy just arranged it to look so. Who knows how long Spencer has been here. </p><p>“Any reason why you picked this park in particular, Spencer? It’s not exactly the most pristine of places.” </p><p>Shawn looks almost taken aback by the sudden recognition. He almost loses the slice of pineapple that he’s adding on top of mayo-slicked ham. However, his response is as cool as it needs to be. “Not everything I do has a rhyme or reason, Lassie, but I appreciate the thought. But no; I just remember enjoying rolling down the hill when I was younger and it’s the only place with shade.” </p><p>“Ever heard of trees,” Carlton quips, taking another bite of his sandwich. </p><p>“Real shade, Lassie, real shade.” Spencer pauses to eat some of his own. “Mmm. God. Lass- you’ve gotta try this. It’s a whole new level of sandwichy goodness. Nay, greatness.” </p><p>“No, thank you.” Carlton’s nose wrinkles up as he declines Shawn’s insistence that his perfectly adequate lunch needs any fruity accessory. “What is with you and pineapples anyways.” </p><p>At least the psychic didn’t have some obsession with mint or something. Then he’d have shot him on day two.<br/>
“If I recall, Guster once mentioned that you have aichmophobia,” Carlton smirks, liking that he has at least one piece of ammunition against Spencer that won’t get him in legal trouble or Henry Spencer’s not-so-graceful graces. </p><p>“I am not afraid of spiders. Well, I don’t favor them, but I won’t jump out of a moving vehicle over one.” Shawn takes another drink from his smoothie. “Oh- by the way, would you like a smoothie? I brought a whole Team Gulp of the stuff.” </p><p>Don’t bother, Carlton. “I’m assuming it’s pineapple as well,” Lassiter says, putting his sandwich down and picking up a napkin to wipe his mouth for a moment. </p><p>“You know it. So what do you say?” Shawn makes a move to open the cooler that’s on the ground beside him. </p><p>“Is that all you brought?” </p><p>“Thirsters can’t be choosers, Lassie.” </p><p>“Do not ever refer to me in that way ever again.” Carlton’s voice clearly shows no amount of amusement or leeway. He could deal with Lassie, Lass, Lassieface, Carlytown, or any of the endless amounts of nicknames that Shawn Spencer has thought of for him.</p><p>“Noted and here’s your glass.” Shawn pulls out a tiki head-shaped tumbler from the same cooler. “Look. It’s blue to match your twenty-day old Siberian husky eyes. And your shirt apparently.” </p><p>Carlton briefly holds his dress-shirt, feeling a little self-conscious and befuddled by Spencer’s rather extensive allegory for his eyes. Shawn notices and smirks for less than a second before slowly sliding the drink over to the man across from him. </p><p>Lassiter is reminded that he is still donning his sunglasses, so he takes them off silently. He folds the arms in before tucking them into the ‘v’ of his slightly unbuttoned shirt. When he looks up again, he’s staring at a cyan-blue tiki head tumbler with a pink Krazy Straw embedded into the pale yellow liquid contents. There’s even a little orange cocktail umbrella hanging off the side, sitting across from a tidbit of pineapple as a garnish. </p><p>“Thanks,” he grunts to Spencer before taking the drink in his hand and taking a tentative sip. </p><p>Dammit. It’s delicious. </p><p>“As always, the pleasure is mine, Carlton,” Shawn says, tilting his own pink tiki tumbler towards his picnic date.</p><p>Carlton gives the man a wary glance, pausing mid-sip, before returning to his sandwich. Too many Spencer-y things around him for his tastes. He takes another chunk out of the ham and sandwich before speaking again. </p><p>“By the way, you never answered my question, Spencer.” He isn’t going to get off that easily. </p><p>Shawn feigns offense, holding a splayed hand to his tie-themed t-shirt. “Well excuse me for caring more about your personal hydration than answering your question, but if you insist I can definitely get right back to you on that inquiry.” </p><p>He waits, none too patiently, as Spencer takes a moment to gulp down another sip of his own smoothie. “Well, being that I am a man of great culture and sophisticated taste, I assume that any self-respecting person enjoys the tangy sweetness of nature’s spiky fruit from Heaven.” </p><p>Carlton nods, not exactly agreeing or understanding, but too into the smoothie to really argue.</p><p>“However, there is a real legitimate reason that I have come to enjoy pineapple,” Shawn announces like it ought to be breaking news. Or in a file somewhere labeled ‘Confidential’. </p><p>Lassiter decides to take the overly sarcastic, smart-ass route this time. “Oh, really? Do tell!” </p><p>Shawn wouldn’t readily admit that the dog smile grin the detective briefly flashes is extremely adorable. He plays along, taking any sort of immaturity he can scrounge up from the man that he can get. The younger of the two leans in, his shirt riding against the table as he leans further into Lassiter’s space.</p><p>“I don’t know if you knew this, Lass, but,” Shawn looks around as if he is being watched. Carlton can’t help the smile that’s dragging at the corners of his mouth while he tries to frown. There’s just something a little amusing about the way that Spencer is faking that he doesn’t want to be at the center of everyone’s attention. </p><p>“Pineapple has an especially beneficial effect on the... male body.” </p><p>Lassiter nearly choked on his drink. “Christ, Spencer. Enough. Stop talking right now. What the hell is wrong with you?”</p><p>Shawn looks rather pleased with himself as he takes a sip of his own smoothie. “Wow, Lassie. I didn’t know you were so opposed to heart health and cancer prevention. I guess next time I’ll just keep my life-saving medical factoids to myself.” </p><p>Oh, if looks could kill. Carlton grits his teeth together, nostrils flaring as he regards the man-child he’s currently stuck with a look of absolute contempt. Maybe he can handle twenty-five years or so behind bars. No. Who is he kidding? He will not let Spencer get to him like that. It’s like letting a ten-year-old get under his skin. Unacceptable. </p><p>“Oh, speaking of, Lassie, did you know that this particular pineapple smoothie recipe called for mint? I fine-tuned it just for you so that you wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock. You’re welcome.” </p><p>Carlton clenches a fist harsh enough to audibly crack his knuckles. “Was that a threat, Spencer?” </p><p>“Lassie, you are being way too tense right now. I can practically feel your stress. Come on, in through your nose out through your mouth.” </p><p>	When Shawn receives an angry huff of air in return, he decides to be more direct. “No, Detective Lassiter, I was not threatening you.” </p><p>	Before the man even realizes it, a tanned hand is placed over the back of Carlton’s slightly uncurled palm. All anger in him disappears for a very, very split moment with a change in (lack of) judgment. Shawn thinks that it reminds him of a rabid dog suddenly being assured that it doesn’t need to attack. </p><p>“This picnic is a safe space, Carlton,” he says. Lassiter’s blue eyes narrow towards Spencer, but no matter how much his mind is screaming at him to slap Shawn’s sweaty meat claw off of his hand, he just can’t. The warmth is strange, but a welcome change from the chill leftover from clenching the tiki tumbler. </p><p>He’s joking; there are absolutely zero merits in what Spencer is saying. He knows and he’s playing some joke- that’s what this whole thing is about. It’s just another case for Spencer- he’s just some evidence to be scanned over and suddenly Spencer, miraculously, psychically comes up with a (correct) observation and theory. Like hell, Lassiter will let the damn man do that to him.  </p><p>Carlton’s emotions aren’t just there for someone to psychoanalyze and dissect and pick apart and tell him what they think they mean. Psychologists, therapists, and his past partners- they all think that they have him completely figured out. They all believe that they hold some Master of Lassitology. But guess what, Spencer, no one does- especially not you. </p><p>His hand is still there, tendons twitching nervously under the psychic’s gentle, barely-there repose. The psychic detective can feel it, and for once, he doesn’t make a comment to break the moment into awkward, ridicule-filled pieces. Instead, he’s as still and silent as Shawn Spencer can possibly be. He’s… shocked, to say the least. </p><p>Right now, he has Carlton Lassiter’s hand underneath his and his blue, blue Egremnoi, Greece Lefkada Island eyes locked on his own. It’s comparable to being at the other end of Lassiter’s barrel. Shawn doesn’t quite know where to go from here. Any snarky comment he may have had died on his tongue. He wishes that he could just take a sip from his smoothie without shattering this moment. He’s parched, but this is rare. This is rarer than rare. Lassie - Carlton - really feels like he’s truly all his right now. </p><p>Lassiter’s eyes are intense, a physical barricade between his firestorm of emotions and Shawn Spencer. Shawn Spencer who only feigns maturity. Shawn Spencer who is always so sure of himself and works to always, always poke fun at Carlton no matter the occasion. He’s a game. A plaything. Those moments where the psychic tries to butter him up, stroke his ego, those are all meant to somehow benefit Spencer. He knows that Spencer doesn’t care and doesn’t actually see Lassiter as anything more than another opportunity to prove how much better and smarter and greater he is. </p><p>‘This picnic is a safe space, Carlton.’ How dare he - how fucking dare he? Bastard. Motherfucking bastard. Smug, scummy little piece of shit. How dare he do that. How dare he actually take the one day where he isn’t subjected to Spencer’s mockery and make a whole show about how he still has Carlton by the scruff of his collar. How dare, Spencer. How dare-</p><p>How dare Guster? How dare he just leave his emotional leech of a friend to feed off of Carlton. He knows that if Guster was here right now this moment wouldn’t be stretching on and on and taunting him like it is. He knows that while Spencer is the one to normally make snide remarks, Guster is more than capable of some of his own. He isn’t quite as in tune with Guster’s sense of humor, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t continue just sitting here, hand-in-pathetic-hand with Shawn Spencer. </p><p>And while he’s at it- how dare Karen? Why should he have to take time off that he doesn’t want? Shouldn’t he have a say in what he does with his time? If Carlton was at the station right now rather than roasting in a button-up on a picnic bench in a shitty park on the other side of town he would be holding manila folders and glossy prints- not the slightly fruity-smelling sticky hand of Shawn Spencer. </p><p>How dare his life decide to keep going and going in the direction that it clearly wants him to go? How dare it be in the direct pathway of Shawn Spencer? If Spencer never made that stupid call to the station - that specific, stupid call about some dumbass robbery - Lassiter wouldn’t have ever had to face this man who knows every since button that lies underneath Lassiter’s thick- thinning skin. </p><p>How dare that stupid store owner had been so obviously guilty on live television. Why the hell are all of the odds, all of the facts- everything- why the hell is everything stacked up against Carlton Lassiter? Can’t he just enjoy a damn pineapple smoothie in the heat of a rare, mild California day? </p><p>“That’s Head Detective Lassiter, to you.” He finally finds his voice; it’s gravely like it had been buried under layers and layers of debris and earth. It’s shaky and uncertain too; he knows that’s a recipe for destruction. Spencer will see that. He will see that and he will latch on and not let go until Lassiter all but storms from the table. Why doesn’t he do that right now? What is stopping him from doing just that? </p><p>Shawn is afraid to nod, afraid to move or respond. Lassie’s hand is still there; it’s still there, but now it’s limp and less fidgety. Shawn can see the look in Carlton’s eyes right now; it doesn’t take a psychic (or a detective) for him to discern the absolutely raging waters of the urge to flee behind those slowly wavering irises. </p><p>“Right. Head Detective Lassiter, this is a safe space.” </p><p>Shawn really hopes that Lassiter doesn’t run, but who is he to request that when all he knows how to do is run? Maybe that’s what draws him to the detective, besides that crop of thick, black Irish hair and sharp jaw-line that doesn’t quite trigger his aichmophobia (it should). He admires that while Lassiter has all the opportunity in the world to run as wild and free as Shawn, he spends it in close quarters and cyclically.</p><p>His routine is amusing to Shawn, who wakes up and only has two requests: food and someone to talk to. Lassiter needs his coffee to have three creams and four sugars; he needs to be dressed in a pressed suit with shiny leather shoes. He needs to have his specific gun- a World War II replica, in his holster. Lassiter needs to have his pencils lined up perfectly with all of his files placed in a neat stack. He needs a sequence. Shawn favors spontaneity. </p><p>The psychic is the exact type of person who one thinks of when they hear the phrase, ‘it’s organized the way it is so I can find what I need’ at the Psych office is only one piece of proof of that. Shawn is so very different from Lassiter, and maybe that’s why he always is drawn towards the stoic man. It’s definitely a large part of it at least. </p><p>What had ‘sealed the deal’ for Shawn had been when he found Lassiter at Tom Blair’s Pub that one time. He is likely to never forget the unfettered exalt in the off-duty detective’s voice as he called him over. Truth be told, Shawn was wary; he’d never seen Lassiter like this. Never saw him show so many teeth with his smile, never saw the exact way that a beam of light hits the man’s wide-open eyes. Never heard such life in his usually dead voice. </p><p>It was then that Shawn Spencer realized that he was in a lot more trouble than he first realized. Within the next few minutes, he also had been starkly reminded of why he didn’t listen to what his heart truly told him. Shawn is used to listening to quick snaps in his brain of ‘ask her out’ or ‘tell him he looks cute’, but with Lassie at that moment, in the time that he had the man flooding his senses with truthful praise and astonishment, he only heard a soft, slow whisper. </p><p>Kiss him. </p><p>Then, Lassiter began to walk over to him and, unfortunately, it got stronger. As did the smell of scotch. He was so, so close. Those blue eyes that he wanted to cannonball in, just like any ‘women’ he claimed wanted to do the same as well that night, were surrounded with pinpricks of red, webbing Lasstier’s sclera. They were so expressive and Shawn is almost sure that’s what really brings out the color in them in the ways looking at photo-copied mugshots could not. He remembers the moment that the “spell” was broken. </p><p>He remembers taking that strong forearm into his hand and pulling Lassiter forward from almost falling backward and cracking his damn head open. He knew then that if he didn’t leave in the next couple of seconds he would be making a mistake with Lassie and for Lassie. </p><p>Luckily, he was able to walk away with just running around convincing Carlton that he had a breakthrough on a case and included Jules, Gus, and his best friend’s love interest in on a wild goose chase to rope everything back to the shambling, crumbling detective. His mind didn’t stop, never stopped whispering since then. </p><p>Always pulling Lassie back from the edge, from falling. </p><p>Even now, as he moves a thumb slowly across the skin of Lassiter’s hand, he realizes he’s still doing the same thing. Just less literally this time. </p><p>Lassiter’s eyes widen a little more when Spencer begins to smooth the pad of his finger on the back of his palm. The simple, perhaps even unconscious movement, sends so many alerts to Carlton’s brain. He blinks a few more times and then slowly withdraws his hand. He slides it away as if slowly reeling a fish in to unhook it and throw it in a cooler full of ice. He deposits the hand in his lap. </p><p>For a moment there, Shawn and Carlton are sharing something similar. A scene where one tells the other how they feel without words or sentences. Spencer, who is so good at deriving everything from nothing, can tell that there’s always been something beneath all of the indignation and anger and so-called hatred. </p><p>He doesn’t have to admit anything or risk sounding like a lovesick, romantic husk of who Spencer once believed him to be. He could just be and that would be enough for them both. Things could not go Lassiter’s way, but at least they could make sense and cooperate with sanity and reason and show a bit of clarity for Christ’s sake. </p><p>Shawn wouldn’t have to run from the feeling- of being close, closer than close. Not just sexual organs and reproductive systems and stupid one-night stands that he brags about but leave him so empty and alone. He will never admit to such, and so he spends day after day night after night chasing after whoever he can get under the sheets of his bed and out of his head come to the break of dawn.</p><p>Some deep, hidden part of him wishes that Carlton could be the same, but he knows and he appreciates that the man isn’t and never could be. Carlton falls fast, fast as Shawn, but drowns in the depth of loneliness that the psychic can imagine away. </p><p>Carlton can be baited, reeled in, and gutted so deeply. Allows himself to be that- an angry part of Shawn snarls- naive, little lovesick puppy. Gets kicked and begs for more, and that’s not in a sexy way either. It’s in the way that when Shawn listens to that voice telling him that he should kissfucklove Lassiter, all he can do is grimace and joke and laugh and wince all at once over and over until the secondhand agony subsides. He knows that his freedom will kill a cooped up, caged in creature of habit like Carlton - that he’s only wanting something that will end up hurting them both in the long run. </p><p>That he’s being selfish (but when has that ever stopped him before?) That he’s being impulsive (there is never a time that he isn’t). That he doesn’t want to hurt Carlton (or maybe he just doesn’t want to become Carlton himself.) </p><p>He doesn’t want to willingly put himself in the position of having his heart (stupid, teenage drama keywords) crushed. He doesn’t want to be the plot of some crappy, C-grade romance flick. Shawn absolutely refuses to give Lassiter the chance to let him put himself in that position. </p><p>So he’ll keep running. Running his mouth. Running away. Running his thumb over the bare spot on Lassiter’s ring finger. </p><p>In this shared moment, this eternity of intimacy, they both fantasize (Lassiter doesn’t fantasize) about (what Shawn doesn’t want to be put into) what can’t be. A glide of lips, a fistful of hair, the taste of ice-chilled pineapple and supermarket deli-sliced ham. Unnecessary and infantile and demanding and needy and desperate and pleading and all of the things that dreams are made of with the harshest, crushing realization that they aren’t real. </p><p>All of this just from what doesn’t really qualify as a hand hold. </p><p>Shawn really should make a joke, but his throat feels almost swollen shut. He’s not having an allergic reaction; he just isn’t feeling exactly as weightless as he usually does. He feels weighted, tethered, like no matter what he can get away with, he knows there’s no getting out of the situations his brain is formulating, alive.</p><p>If he tells Carlton Lassiter that he loves him, in a non-humorous, or non-gotcha way, then Shawn Spencer’s world will feel abruptly, overwhelmingly real. </p><p>If Carlton Lassiter tells Shawn Spencer that he loves him, in a literal, non-influenced way, then Carlton Lassiter’s world will plunge deeper than it ever has before, he won’t see the bottom again. He’ll have to either die out in the open ocean or trust that he can make it to shore again. </p><p>What happens when Shawn Spencer takes away what the shore once used to be? He washed over the ‘shore’ and made it right back into just the rest of the ‘ocean’. There isn’t a shore- there are just miles and miles of water and uncertainty, ready to claim Lassiter whole. </p><p>He has no idea that Shawn feels the same way when Lassie’s eyes are almost painted in his direct line of sight. </p><p>Then, before either of them can register the move, someone flips Lassiter’s hand over so that it’s palm side up. Shawn’s palm feels even warmer and softer while it is resting in the larger man’s hand. </p><p>“It belongs there,” Carlton’s mind whisper-shouts. He tries to deny that, but when Shawn’s fingers close in on Lassiter’s fingers, and Lassiter’s fingers curl against Shawn’s, it’s easy to ignore. Perhaps, being in Spencer’s presence brings him the practice of ignoring the little things. When Spencer is being snide, he’s learned to turn out the crap and cut to the answer that’s hidden under all the fluff. </p><p>Shawn has only ever held Lassiter’s hand like this once before. It was merely the first day that they were officially working as partners within the SBPD. The crush was a notification in the back of his mind at that point. He had imagined holding Lassie’s hands since the moment he laid them on him; he knew what rough felt like, so what about soft? It didn’t matter; it never mattered, but Shawn found himself wanting it anyhow. And by God had he gotten it. </p><p>Now, he has this. </p><p>To both of their surprise, Lassiter is the first to make the next move. It’s a slow dance to the soft song of the trees blowing in a Santa Barbara breeze. Carlton puts everything on the line; he is laying his gun on the table, bullets and all, and turning the handle towards Shawn. </p><p>He threads the smaller man’s fingers in between his own, and Shawn immediately reacts. His movements aren’t rushed or hurried, but the way that the psychic’s fingers twitch and jitter clue Lassiter in on how this feels as death-defying as it does to him. </p><p>Their eyes haven’t left each other’s, only growing more relaxed. Now, they’re peering at each other as one looks at familiar, but beautiful artwork. Admiration, respect, and nostalgia. Soon enough, their hands are completely entwined in a tight, but relaxed embrace. </p><p>Shawn and Carlton stay like this for a while; neither of them seems to be breathing, or show any sign of wanting to come unglued. However, at this moment, there isn’t a desire for anything past this. They don’t need anything else. Hand holding is enough. They don’t even trick themselves (get their hopes up) that this could be a start. They are just holding hands, in a park, on the other side of town. </p><p>There’s a mutual realization that while this is enough right now, they will crave it again. It may not be instantaneous; it may not happen for a while, but Shawn and Carlton know that this is a feeling one can’t only think of chasing once. Whether that’s when Lassiter is at home and holding the TV remote in his hand, missing the warmth where plastic has now taken its place. Shawn may find himself eating a bag of peanuts from the night-time boardwalk vendor and only wish that those weren’t shells that he’s holding, but the Head Detective’s surprisingly soft palm. </p><p>They’ll both think of it when Lassiter is glaring at Shawn while he’s having an episode at the station. Except, maybe he can finally admit that he’s more upset about the fact that Spencer’s hand is touching his temple and hair and not in Carlton’s grasp like it goddamn ought to be. </p><p>It’s when Shawn begins thinking in the way of C-grade crime and romance films -  open in on  SHAWN lowering CARLTON’s gun barrel first, gently plucking the weapon from the detective’s hand and using his other one to massage gently into his tense, trigger-happy fingers - that he decides enough is enough. He cannot start to fantasize about their homoerotic crime romance series. That’s where he draws the line. </p><p>He moves his other hand to get an awkward grip around his tiki tumbler. He takes a sip, pursing his lips and sucking from the Krazy Straw slowly and just so until the awareness returns to Lassie’s eyes. The slightly melting frozen drink ascends ever-so-leisurely up the second loop and finally, Lassie grins and chuckles to himself. There isn’t any sound. The wrinkles around his eyes crinkle up as he shakes his head, gripping Spencer’s hand tighter. </p><p>Shawn’s heart jackhammers. Did Carlton’s hand - did Carlton just hold his hand back, more? His brain is already spinning like an out-of-control record player, and all it is telling him to do is leave the pineapple and run like hell for his motorcycle. Leave Santa Barbara. Leave this moment where this is. Leave Carlton Lassiter and Shawn Spencer as they are. Don’t ruin this. Maybe find another fifty summer jobs somewhere south of the Equator - any direction away from here. </p><p>When Shawn has done maintenance in his skull, Lassiter’s grin is fading like a sunset over the horizon. His expression is mild now, as open as Lassiter can possibly be. </p><p>However, Carlton’s mind is running fast enough to warrant several speeding tickets. He chastises himself for sounding like a teenager. All he can think of are thousands of questions. A question per synapse.</p><p> 	Is Shawn Spencer holding his hand? Is he holding Shawn Spencer’s hand? Are they at a picnic, or are they on a picnic date? Which partnership are they celebrating: Carlton and Psych’s or Carlton and Shawn’s? Are pineapples really that sweet, or is that blue-green once-over from Shawn overriding and corrupting all of his senses? </p><p>How can he be sure that any of this is real? </p><p>Suddenly, the COPS theme song breaks the soundtrack of life and nature and panic and Lassiter blinks a few times before he’s forced to pull his hand away and answer his cell phone. </p><p>“Detective Lassiter,” he answers, now pulling his eyes away from Shawn, his usual frown is fixed on his face. He’s slipped right back into work mode. </p><p>Shawn bites his tongue from commenting about how he’s actually ‘off-duty Detective Lassiter’ today, but he busies himself with aligning the pineapple back into an illusion of unmarked wholeness. Kind of like his emotions right now. </p><p>“Hey Carlton, this is Juliet. You wanted me to call you, remember? Something about making sure Shawn doesn’t keep you past the one-thirty mark.” </p><p>Lassiter darts his eyes towards the psychic; his face is slightly flushed as he hopes Spencer hadn’t heard that. There’s no way to know for sure. </p><p>“Oh, right. Thank you, O’Hara. I’m a little preoccupied at the moment, so if you can send those files over to my email, I’ll be sure to get back to you by the end of the day.” </p><p>“Wait- what? Email? Files? I thought-” </p><p>“Sounds great. Alright, see you tomorrow at the station. Goodbye.” He ends the call and looks back at Spencer.</p><p>“Duty calls, Lassie. I understand,” Shawn says before Lassiter can even say anything. He balks for a moment. Does he detect a hint of defensiveness in Spencer’s tone?</p><p>“Uh, no actually,” Lassiter says, ducking his gaze back down the table before turning it back to Shawn with a flickering smile. “O’Hara wasn’t aware of the… plans I had today, so I just told her that I’d tend to the files later tonight.” </p><p>“But you probably knew that already, didn’t you, psychic?” Carlton takes a well-timed sip of his smoothie as Shawn sputters. </p><p>“I did, Lassie, and that’s why I’m not at all surprised that you aren’t taking the first opportunity to run for the hills. And why I’m additionally, not going to secretly feel just a little smug about you choosing little ‘ole me over your precious cases.” </p><p>Lassiter picks up his sandwich again. “Now, don’t get cocky, Spencer.” His eyes continue to light up in the sun, in his hidden smirk. He lays a limp, inviting hand on the table.</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it, Lassiter.” Shawn takes the man’s palm in his; the feeling of Lassie’s hands wrapping around him reminds the psychic of a home he never had. He keeps his other hand around the base of his cup.</p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this after watching three seasons of Psych and grabbing at every Shassie moment I could possibly find. This is my first attempt at writing for this fandom. Please let me know how I did. :) Thank you for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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